CHAPTER XI
THE STRANGER
"I looked, and to myself I said,
'The letter L.'"
—JEAN INGELOW.
But days and weeks and months went by, and in spite of Mrs. Randal's presentiment, no one came to claim Lily; it seemed that her parents, if she really had any, were no nearer finding their lost child than when she disappeared four years before. John had somehow expected that Lily's father and mother would be among the first passengers from London by the train that now stopped only four miles off: to Markwood people, in their remoteness, this seemed like a station at their very doors. And in truth, when the long-delayed discovery came at last, the railway had something to do with it.
But all the same it was a strange chance—only there is no such thing as chance—which made that midsummer Sunday morning so beautiful that Sir Henry Smith asked his friend Colonel Maxwell if he was up to a walk of three miles or so, and would like to go with him to a little out-of-the-way village called Markwood, where there was a very pretty old church and a nice old vicar who used to be his tutor, but whom he had not seen for years.
This was what the railway had done. It had brought the owner of Carsham Park back to his old home, with the intention of living there part of the year, at least. Sir Henry Smith was a restless man, fond of travelling, fond of art and of his fellow-creatures. He had found the old house, so far from a station, too dull and too inconvenient for him, and for some years he had spent most of his time abroad. During that time he had made friends with Colonel Maxwell, who was also travelling about, trying in all sorts of new scenes to find consolation for certain great troubles which had fallen upon him.
The two friends walked a long way through Sir Henry's park, then turned into a narrow, shady lane which brought them out at last at the far end of the village of Markwood. Both were struck with the quiet beauty of this depth of peaceful England. On that June morning, the beech-woods had hardly lost their young brilliancy of green; old thorn-trees here and there filled the air with the scent of their fading bloom; a great arch of soft, warm, calm blue sky lay over the valley, reflected in the ripples of the river. The Markwood bells were chiming sweetly, but they had stopped by the time that Sir Henry and Colonel Maxwell reached the churchyard gate, where the dark yew shadows lay on green rows of graves. Out through the low church porch, where the door stood open, came a murmured sound of prayer.
"This is a peaceful corner indeed," said Colonel Maxwell to his friend, as they lingered a moment at the gate. "One could end one's days happily enough here."
"Yes, it is pretty. My wife used to say it was like a place in a story-book."
"There is something quite charming about it, to my mind," said Colonel Maxwell.
They went quietly into the church, and sat down on a bench near the door. A few heads were turned, but Sir Henry Smith was almost a stranger among the people here, and his friend was quite unknown. The Vicar recognised his old pupil, and his voice shook a little nervously as he read the first lesson; but neither the reading nor the music in Markwood Church had need of any excuse or shyness; both were as good as they could be. And there was a tall, dark young man in the choir who sang out bravely in the morning Psalms, "I was glad when they said unto me: We will go into the house of the Lord."